


Je me souviens

by CapGirlCanuck



Series: FoxholeBros [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 100 years since end of World War I, Angst and Feels, Bells of Peace, Bittersweet, Freedom Isn't Free, Gen, Marvel's Band of Brothers, November 11 - Freeform, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Rememberance Day/Veterans Day, Steve Rogers Feels, Warrior One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: November 11, 1918Sarah Rogers stirred in her sleep, then came awake. Motherly instinct had her fumbling to light the candle, and turning to the cradle by the bedside where the baby lay.***November 11, 2018It was quiet and dark; except in his head. Steve Rogers rolled over for the hundredth time, and picked up his phone. Sleep had been impossible and he was just waiting for a not-too-unearthly hour, before he headed out for a run.Sarah Rogers once told her son,When you fight, don't do it because you hate your enemies. Do it for the love of your friends.That's what his father did. But will it be enough? And what will that love cost him?





	Je me souviens

**Author's Note:**

> Title: (I remember) Motto of le Royal 22ieme Regiment, Canadian Army  
> Keith Urban's song 'For You' says it all.

_November 11, 1918_

Sarah Rogers stirred in her sleep, then came awake. Motherly instinct had her fumbling to light the candle, and turning to the cradle by the bedside where the baby lay.

He was fast asleep, his rosy little face peeking out from the blankets. She sighed, and leaned on her elbow, watching him.

She lifted her head as sounds seeped through the walls of her tiny apartment. Voices, shouts, and someone running upstairs. With quick, anxious movements she got up from the bed, pulled on her dressing gown and, carrying her candle, went into the front room. The clock said twenty after five.

Again she stilled.

Church bells. There were church bells ringing. Why it sounded as if every church bell in New York was ringing; wild, unfettered pealing, like the bells were either trying to run or trying to dance.

And now car horns, gunshots, and what must surely be someone banging pot lids together. What on God’s green earth…?

With sudden decision, Sarah went to the front door, took off the chain, turned the lock, and cautiously stepped outside.

Chaos. There was chaos in the street, people dancing, shouting, hugging. People in pyjamas and night gowns, and a rapidly growing pile of what looked like junk down in the middle of the street. Above it all the church bells kept ringing.

Bewildered, Sarah tightened the sash of her dressing gown, and was about to hurry back inside, when someone called her name. “Sarah! Oh, Sarah!”

She spotted Annie McMahon running across the street, waving her hands over her head. She practically flew up the steps and wrapped Sarah in the biggest hug she’d had since… when? “Sarah,” she gasped, “Oh, Sarah! It’s over, it’s all over. Haven’t you heard?”

Sarah’s breath caught in her throat, and she pulled back from her younger friend, grabbing her arms. “Over? What’s over? Annie–”

“The war! The war’s over!” Annie clasped her hands, dancing on the spot. “Daddy was up all night listening to the radio, like he has the last week, and the news came in. The Germans surrendered! It’s over. Michael will come home now.” She stilled suddenly, staring at Sarah, then burst into tears.

Sarah pulled her close, let the girl cry on her shoulder. She closed her eyes, heart bursting with a myriad of emotions, dominated by the intermingling joy and sorrow.

Annie had waited so long, prayed so hard for her soldier boy. Michael McClellan would come home to his family, to his sweetheart. They’d have their life.

Joseph would sleep in peace now. He had not given his life in vain. Sarah would see him again someday, when they all came Home. But the ache was still there.

Bittersweet.

On an apartment step in Brooklyn, two women wept. One for the end of the months of fear and prayers and mud-stained letters; the other for the price paid for this joy.

Down in the street the bonfire was lit, and the flames danced, reaching for the heavens, where everyone’s hearts soared. And above them all the church bells rang.

When at last Sarah was able to escape back into her apartment, she went at once to the baby’s cradle. He was awake, but not crying. He looked at her, his blue eyes bright even in the pre-dawn darkness, and gave a little crow.

With a husky laugh, Sarah bent and picked him up. “Oh, wee laddie.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, cradled him close to her chest, let him grasp her finger. He was so small, even compared to other babies his age. The doctor still called him ‘a little miracle’.

“This is another kind of miracle, wee one,” she whispered against his face. Kissed his forehead, rocked him gently. “The war is over, Annie said. Peace, by the grace of God.”

She listened to his breathing as his eyelashes fluttered shut again. “But he’s not coming home. Michael McClellan is and Olly Thompson and Isaac Kearny. But not Joseph Rogers. I’ll never love another man but the two of you. You’ll make him proud someday. I know you will, laddie.”

She cocked her head, listened to the tumult of joy that sounded outside. “No more war. You hear that, Steven? Peace. I pray it’s all you’ll ever know.”

Little Steven slept in his mother’s arms. Sarah rocked him and waited for the sunrise. Prayed for peace and listened to the church bells ringing.

******

_November 11, 2018_

It was quiet and dark; except in his head. Steve Rogers rolled over for the hundredth time, and picked up his phone. Sleep had been impossible and he was just waiting for a not-too-unearthly hour, before he headed out for a run.

4:37

He closed his eyes, groaned. Forget it. Maybe if he went out now, he could tire himself out for a nap later. Not like Sam was around to notice, or Bucky was around to care.

Steve tossed the sheets aside, and sat on the edge of the bed, buried his face in his hands. For a moment.

Clenching his jaw he stood, dug a sweatshirt out of the dresser, took a pit stop and headed for the front door. He kept the motions flowing into one another: kneeling to lace his shoes, rising to pull on his sweater, stepping out into the hallway, heading for the elevator… He changed his mind and kept going to the stairs at the end of the hall.

Out in the chilly darkness, he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up, and broke into a slow jog. He passed boarded-up shops and houses, trying not to take in the sheer number of uninhabited buildings.

In the months since half the world’s population had been snapped out of existence, Steve’s country had slowly stumbled toward some sense of normalcy. At least it _seemed_ to be his country again. A surge of bitterness gripped him. _Now_ they wanted him. After he’d _failed_ once again to protect his best friend, his brother. Brother _s_ …

He bowed his head and bolted into a dead run. The sidewalks and almost bare trees and dark buildings and street lamps blurred and fell away. He was flying, up among the stars, just like he and Buck had dreamed of when they were little boys…

Only when he was almost staggering did Steve halt, stumbling off the path to collapse under a tree. He slumped against it, hands shaking, even though the stitch in his side was already easing.

_“You oughtta be ashamed of yourself. You should take another lap. Did you?”_

With a broken cry Steve hunched over, buried his face in his hands.

_“You don’t have to do this.”_

_“I know. When do we start?”_

_“I can get by on my own.”_

_“You don’t have to. I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.”_

Alone in a park in Brooklyn, Steve Rogers wept—a soldier’s tears for fallen brothers, a man’s tears for his dearest friends.

When the tears stopped, he stayed for a few minutes with his head bowed, quiet, aching.

Somewhere nearby church bells began to chime and he listened. They tolled the hour, and Steve counted. 3… 4… 5… 5 o’clock.

Slowly, he got to his feet, the full weight of a hundred years dragging on his body.

A car purred past on the road, a hundred yards distant, it’s headlights falling across a sign staked in the grass verge: a picture of a poppy and the words _Remember Armistice Day 1918-2018._

He closed his eyes briefly, and a memory stirred. His mother, telling about the celebrations, the ‘day peace came home’.

He made his way down to the street corner at the other end of the small park, checked the street signs. Oh, yeah, he knew where he was. And he knew where he was going. He took in a deep breath and crossed the street, heading east. His walk had purpose in it now.

He slowed when he spotted the neat black fence, the grass all raked and cut, under the almost bare trees and the big old fir. Someone was still taking care of it.

His running shoes were silent, as he crossed the street, made his way to the little gate. He laid his hand on the latch, no padlocks. It seemed as if no time had passed at all. Softly, reverently, Steve entered the old cemetery, let his feet take him to the two stones in the back corner, three now, and beyond that, three more headstones completing the row.

For a time he wandered there in the pre-dawn darkness, suspended somewhere between past and present.

_Cpt. Joseph Rogers_

_1893-1918_

_John 15:13_

 

_Sarah Rogers_

_1896-1936_

_Beloved_

 

_Cpt. Steven G. Rogers_

_1918-1945_

_Our hero_

 

_George Benjamin Barnes_

_1892-1980_

_‘When a man’s ways please the LORD, He maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him.’_

_Proverbs 16:7_

 

_Winifred Rebecca Barnes_

_1896-1990_

_Beloved Wife and Mother_

_‘Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.’_

_Proverbs 31:28_

 

_Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes_

_‘Bucky’_

_1917-1945_

_Son. Brother. Friend._

 

Two marked graves empty; because one man was standing there breathing in the cold morning air, and the other had been turned to ash in a forest in Africa.

But it was his father’s Steve lingered by. Ran his fingers over the worn dates, the Scripture reference; he knew that one. _‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’_

His mother had always said: _“He was the bravest of the brave, laddie. He sacrificed his life for us, for all of us. And we must use our own lives wisely.”_

Something stirred in Steve’s heart and mind, but it was too vague to name.

He turned and began to make his way back toward the gate, before he froze. A man sitting on the bench under the old oak; how had he not heard him? He must have been more out of it then he thought.

He realized suddenly that the sky was lighter, and he was stiff and chilled. How long had he been standing here?

The man rose to his feet, and Steve’s ears caught a faint whirring, whining sound. He was wearing a stocking cap, pulled down over his ears, and had his hands shoved into the pockets of his light jacket.

“Hey.”

It took Steve a minute to remember how to talk. “Rhodey.”

“Would have gotten here sooner, but it took me a while to catch up.” He half-grinned, patted his hip. Waited a beat. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

Still no response, and he sighed, jerked his head at the bench. “Seat?”

“Sure.”

After a brief silence, Steve finally came up with something to say. “You fly here?”

“Took me less than an hour. Tony was worried, not that he’d say that out loud, just asked me to go check which girlfriend you were visiting now.”

Steve didn’t feel offended at all, just a little frustrated. “Just wanted to be alone last night, so I found a place to sleep.” He shrugged. “You know what day it is?”

“You planning on church this morning? Or one of the services at the cenotaphs?”

Yes, he’d though about it. “Church. Something quiet.”

Back on the street, they meandered their way in the general direction of the tiny apartment Steve had always kept for emergencies. Keeping to Rhodey’s pace, not that they would mention such a thing; Steve had no idea where he’d left the suit.

“Hungry?” Rhodey asked. It was after 7, the city was waking up. “I only had time for half a cup of coffee.”

“Sure.”

Rhodey gave him a sideways look, raised his eyebrows. “Then you at least should get cleaned up for church.”

It was a quiet service, Steve sitting at the back like he always did, hoping not to be noticed, especially today of all days. A day for honoring America’s veterans, and what had he done? Let half the world get wiped from the pages of history.

Rhodey sat beside him, shielding him from the aisle side, and Steve was suddenly grateful for this man. Tony’s old friend, who had seen him through thick and thin, and somehow, after everything, still accepted Steve as a friend too. He and Sam had gotten close, two ex-airmen with idiot friends, and Sam had wrestled with his guilt over Rhodey’s injuries. Now, of course, it was Rhodey who had let Sam down.

The service was ending as the bells began to chime the hour, and Steve started. There was a pause as the pastor took his seat and the hour began to strike; 11 o’clock Steve knew. The moment of silence would follow.

He had a sudden sharp memory: Standing beside his mother, hand clasped in hers waiting for the squeeze that meant this standing so still and quiet was over. The smell of the morning’s baking in his shirt collar. The lovely shades of brown flowers and leaves patterned over his mother’s skirt. _“We remember. We remember. We remember…”_

He realized with a start that the congregation was standing, and Rhodey was nudging him. 10… 11… 12… 13… Wait, what?

The choir had also risen, the pastor was calling out the hymn number, and above them the bells rang on.

Rhodey made a sort of ‘Aha’ sound. “A hundred times?” he murmured.

Again something stirred in Steve, and rose, slowly filling his chest with… warmth. With every toll of the bells, he could lift his head a little higher, stand a little straighter.

A determination he had not felt in months seeped into his very bones.

He could see his father smiling, in the picture that sat on the bookcase in the living room. _“Let not their sacrifice be in vain.”_

Bucky and Sam lounging around the cooking fire as the sun set in Wakanda, drinking beer, teasing each other mercilessly.

“We’ll win.” He said it right out loud, but in the middle of the hymn being sung and the bells still ringing, only Rhodey could hear him.

“We’ll win. We’ll bring them home. We’ll bring peace home.”

“Amen,” Rhodey said.

A couple pews ahead, a little girl standing between her parents, turned to look at them. She smiled, her face bright, innocent.

 _For you._ “No matter what it costs.”

And above their heads, above the song, above the roofs and housetops of Brooklyn, the bells rang on.

 

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

 

_In Flanders’ Fields the poppies blow_

_Between the crosses, row on row,_

_That mark our place; and in the sky,_

_The larks, sill bravely singing, fly_

_Scarce heard amidst the guns below._

_We are the dead. Short days ago_

_We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,_

_Loved, and were loved, and now we lie_

_In Flanders’ Fields_

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:_

_To you from failing hands we throw_

_The torch, be yours to hold it high._

_If ye break faith with us who die_

_We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_

_In Flanders’ Fields_

**Author's Note:**

> ‘In Flanders’ Fields’, perhaps the definitive war poem of the western world, was penned by Lt. Col. John McCrae of the Canadian Expeditionary Force in May 1915, sitting in the back of an ambulance outside the field hospital, dirty, tired, and broken, after tending to the funeral of his friend and brother-in-arms Lt. Alexis Helmer.  
> McCrae, a medical student and poet turned soldier, was born and raised in my hometown of Guelph, Ontario, and I plan to stand up on the hill beside his statue, close by the Church of Our Lady overlooking the city, while I listen to the church bells ring. 
> 
> War is never simple, and there are two sides to every story. But wherever you are on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, please stop and remember: they paid for peace with their lives. And they did it for us. Let us live so no one else has to.  
> War can't make peace. Only love can. 'Now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.' 1 Corinthians 13:13
> 
> I hope to goodness this is still canon-compliant next spring. Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you for reading. Thank you for remembering.


End file.
